


Contemplation

by coppersky



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppersky/pseuds/coppersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hercule Poirot considers his friend in his spare time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at the beginning of 2011 and haven't edited it since, so feel free to leave constructive criticism, but I'm really just popping these up to share. :)

Hercule Poirot was a great man in both mind and in wealth. From the lowly life he had once made do with when first he had arrived as a refugee in 1916, slowly but surely he had built his reputation up to that of a great and gloried detective, and as such only took on cases which held a particular interest with him. For all others he was merely a “consulting” detective to whom the people who were suspicious of family members or false dealings could turn to for help, for a modest fee. With his particular choosing of cases, time was a thing Poirot had plenty of to spare, and this particular day saw him spending his time in contemplation; using his little grey cells to think over a topic he had held almost taboo in his mind until recently.  
Hastings.  
His dearest friend and possibly the only man in England who could stand the little mannerisms Poirot held. Two eggs of the exact same size with breakfast, every tie adjusted to perfection, every correction of “I am not some French gent, I am some Belgian gent,” the way in which every particle of dust was pinched off with delicacy from his clothes and every ornament was aligned perfectly with a table edge or wall; even the meticulous grooming of his moustaches were just some of the many things Poirot knew he was guilty of doing, but of which Hastings would merely smile or even help him with. On more than one occasion, Poirot had seen Hastings align something more parallel on a desk, or lay the plates out perfectly on the smoothed-down place mats he laid on the table for meals. Slowly yet surely, Poirot thought, his own mannerisms were rubbing off on dear Hastings, whether he knew it or not. At this thought a little smiled graced the detective’s face and from somewhere in his throat a chuckle resounded.  
“Mon petit,” he whispered. “Hastings. Arthur Hastings. Dear Captain Arthur Hastings.” He felt the words roll over his tongue and tingle his lips with their intoxicating sound. A fluttering feeling crept up from Poirot’s stomach and went straight up his spine to the back of his eyes, forcing him to close them and relish the strange feeling that had come so unexpectedly from saying Hastings’ name.  
“Mon cher Arthur,” he experimented, and the feeling intensified. Poirot allowed himself to grin wildly. 

The front door of the apartment opened to reveal the same Captain Arthur Hastings, just before tea. This Hastings relieved himself of overcoat and hat before making his way to his friend’s study, as was his habit after having returned from any errand. Poirot was standing in front of his desk shuffling a few papers into a neat pile as Hastings walked up beside him and reached out for the newspaper that lay folded neatly on the desk.  
“Hello Poirot,” Hastings said nonchalantly as he rested the paper down and read the headlines.  
“Hastings, you know I am perhaps sometimes a little forward with the way I approach the subjects Englishmen would find awkward?” Hastings looked down at his friend and cocked an eyebrow.  
“Yes?” he replied in a querying voice.  
“Bon. Then you will not be shocked if I were to do this.”  
“D-” Hastings’ voice was muffled with a kiss.


End file.
